


Mystic!

by ANDR0MEDAZ



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Denial of Feelings, Dragons, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fred is a ghost, Ghosts, Harry is an Auror, MC is a bumbling fool, Mutual Pining, No Harry slander, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-War, Prophetic Dreams, Ron is SMART (CANON!!!), Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, Three Acts, Trauma, cedric diggory is alive, circe kettleheart, death eaters are coming back, five years post-war, george weasley is bad at romance, like really slow burn, lots of worldbuilding, main character is psychic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:13:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29014905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANDR0MEDAZ/pseuds/ANDR0MEDAZ
Summary: Shit happens, and Circe Kettleheart, psychic extraordinaire, knows that better than anyone. She's been seeing things since she was seven years old, and now five years have passed since she decided that maybe the whole "hero" thing didn't work for her. Chained to a desk with dreams of seeing the world - not Seeing beyond the veil, but really seeing - she hasn't slept right in five years.But now, when she is forced to reunite with her best friend from school and then meet the ginger boy whose life she saved one time (who is, apparently, "forever in debt to her", whatever that means), things are set to change. Because when you work down the street from the people you've been avoiding for years, it isn't exactly the easiest thing in the world to keep trying to forget. What unfolds? Your guess is as good as any, but just know that there will be dragons, ghosts and a lot of ice cream.It's like they say -Shit happens!
Relationships: George Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue. 2002

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the story playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/28BHoPACtqCsuoUV6alG8X?si=1bMCna7lRvyWcK0s9Q2O_w

**EVERY NIGHT I SEEM TO DREAM A NUMBER** of strange dreams. This is why I try to keep sleep to an absolute minimum in my everyday life. The waking world is a dull blade sawing away at my skull, and I know eventually it will cut through the bone altogether and dig the point into my brain, but if the real world is a rusted knife, dreams are double-edged swords that slit the throat of the person who dares to let their eyes shut.

Since the day I turned seven years old, dreaming has been hard. Everything is so vivid, playing on every sense like skilfully long fingers on piano. I still remember fragments of the nightmare I had the night of my seventh birthday - the broken skeleton of the man who owned the sweet shop in town, doubled over at odd angles with blood seeping from strange places. The stuff was so thick and sulphurous with poison that it bubbled black and tarry on the linoleum floor of the shop. The next morning, news reporters rushed to the scene to inform the local media outlets that Jonathon Groves had been brutally murdered - not with a knife, _oh no,_ but with his heart cut out and melted into a steaming bucket of tar.

A dream is a dream, I suppose, until it isn't, and if I'd known that my lifelong ambitions of being a Magizoologist (or as we in the biz like to call it, a _Wizard Naturalist)_ would mean doing paperwork everyday until I drop dead, I probably would've just gone to work in a shop.Somehow, though, this is what I got stuck with. Day after day, parchment piled higher and higher on my desk. I thought working for the Magical Wildlife Rescue Foundation would mean travelling the world and handling all the beasts that I studied for years. Instead, it entails plenty of ink and parchment being wasted copying details about creatures I _should_ be looking after. I mean, there are spells for this kind of work, anyway.

I feel a soft, wet nose nudge me gently and glance under the desk to see a hungry Figaro licking his lips, glancing between me and an empty food bowl. 

"You're a greedy pig," I tell him matter-of-factly, and he frowns, ears turning back in dissatisfaction. "Oh, don't look at me like that. We'll be done soon."

With these words, I slide him another piece of finished parchment paper, and he takes it in his mouth as gently as he can manage, taking care not to smudge the ink, before padding over to the _outgoing_ pigeonhole in my office and sliding the file into place. 

"There's a good boy!" I coo, and he trots back over to me, tail in the air proudly. "At this rate, we'll be done before midnight." 

Figaro gives me a little miaow before settling himself by my chair again and waiting patiently for the next bit of finished parchment. We make a pretty good team, him and I, but he can be a little bit too enthusiastic sometimes, as is the case now as he nibbles on the cracked leather of my office chair. I shoo him off and try my best to keep my eyes open. Sometimes, I find myself nodding off and daydreaming about what I would love to be doing - and trust me when I say I _promise_ it isn't paperwork. Although, right now, dozing off will mean not going home for the night, which will mean an angry, hungry half-Kneazle, which will mean...I might not wake up tomorrow morning. 

With a new burst of motivation born from a longing for my warm bed sheets, within half an hour the stack of parchment papers have been fully transferred to the outgoing box in my pigeonhole. I stand in a hurry, slinging my bag over my shoulder as I slide my coat on and beckon for Figaro to follow me out of the office. 

A wave of my wand later and I have locked up the office and the rest of the building, and within moments I am holding a heavy Figaro in my arms, back at my apartment. London - a place I never thought I'd live in. I grew up in a small town outside Devon, and so Central London is definitely not the ideal location for me. Still, Figaro and I enjoy the comforts of twenty-four hour fast food, warm blankets and lots of television. So, for the time being, it suits both of us. As the familiar rush of apparating quickly wears off, I hurry to unlock the door as quietly as I can and let Figaro in before stepping in myself and kicking the door shut behind me.

Like my father taught me growing up, I bolt the door shut and draw the latch and then, like my mother taught me, I wave my wand and whisper, _"Colloportus."_ A soft squelch echoes out in response to this incantation, indicating that my door is now completely locked.

Flicking on the lights, I'm quick to hang my coat and purse on the back of the front door, flicking the kettle on and getting a can of unsalted sardines out of the fridge for Figaro. The black cat rubs his cheek against my leg in a sudden show of fondness, and I scoff. "So _now_ you love me," I point out drily. 

He just blinks up at me, purring so loud I can hear him chirp a little. I can practically _hear_ him in my head - _"Hurry up and feed me already!"_

Although I'm in my flat every night, my absence has been noted by the plaster, and the whole place has taken on a musty scent. I yank open the windows with a mug of tea in my free hand, letting the sounds of London stream into the living room. Figaro makes himself busy polishing off his third dinner of the night while I head straight for the bathroom to wash my hands.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror almost admiringly - just as I expect, a face of olive skin, freckles, messy hair and dark eyes ringed with purple and blue blink back at me. I sigh a little dramatically before shaking the water off my hands and settling down on the couch to flick the television on. Figaro's purrs move across the kitchen and living room behind my head to the large, open window by the couch. I watch him jump onto the windowsill from the corner of my eye, settling down easily with his tail flicking contentedly against the window frame. He's a big boy with a thick, black coat of medium hair and two different coloured eyes - one bright, golden yellow and the other pure white. A bit unusual looking for the Muggle world, but whenever my neighbours ask about him, I make sure to lie about Figaro having a birth defect. 

My neighbours aren't strictly _supposed_ to know he exists, actually, on account of my flat being pet-free, but a batch of my famous vanilla scones later and the elderly couple next door are easily bribed into secrecy. I don't keep any other pets for this specific reason - I definitely don't need anything catching fire in the flat. Than I'd be homeless _and_ dissatisfied at work. Although I'm eager to get to bed, it's not for a good night's sleep more than it is for the relaxation. Sadly, the reason for this is something I can't change - I haven't slept properly in twelve years. _Why?_ Well, when every time you fall asleep you have horrific, overtly realistic nightmares, there doesn't seem like much need to do it.

I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness at the couch when Figaro's howls rouse me from my dream-state. Equal parts relieved and alarmed, I stand up with a start. His back is arched, hair on end and tail between his back legs as he growls threateningly at a bird - a tawny owl, to be more specific - with a wax-sealed envelope clutched tightly between its talons. It glares at Figaro with an expression of disgust and hurt before dropping the envelope on the windowsill and flying out of reach right as the cat takes a swipe at him.

 _A letter!_ I haven't had a letter in months! I scoop it off the windowsill in a hurry and turn it over carefully in my hands. If I'm not mistaken, the golden wax sealing the envelope shut carries the Voneus seal - a hedgehog on all fours. 

So Alatar Voneus sent me a letter. Alatar - the well-groomed Hufflepuff boy I went to school with. I tug at the front of the envelope gently and the seal pops open, seemingly of its own accord, though I know that the seal must have been enchanted. I slide the parchment from its encasement before unfolding it. The letter is addressed to Circe Kettleheart of the Magical Wildlife Rescue Foundation in Central London. For a moment, I wonder if that's me, but then I remember that I've never heard of another Circe Kettleheart, _especially_ not living in London, as _especially_ not one who is an old friend to Alatar Voneus. _Of course it's me!_ I scoff to myself. 

Figaro miaows grumpily at me, as if to say, _"Are you going to open it or not?"_ I oblige readily.

_Dearest Circe,_

_I understand that we left things with open wounds. These wounds, I hope, have healed of their own accord, and not grown infected over this period of time. Six years ago, when we finished at Hogwarts, I thought that we would be friends for life. Five years ago, the battle that ensued seems to have changed our fates. I hope that you are well._

_I understand that the rift between us may be too wide for us to close, but if you are at all interested in possibly reiterating the ties that bind, I would love to receive a letter from you - or, alternatively, you could come see me tomorrow at our old meeting place. You know the one._

_I miss you and hope you are well._

_Sincerely,  
Alatar Voneus._

I sigh dramatically at the blank bit of parchment underneath Alatar's final address. I know what this is - a trick. Not a magical trick, but one from the world I live in, now. Hurriedly, I light a match and warm the underside of the parchment with the flame. Just as I expected, the letters reveal themselves.

 _P.S.,_ Alatar writes, _Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Noon._


	2. Fucking Ridiculous

**I HAVE THE STRANGEST DREAM.** I am lying in bed, the window wide open with a strong, icy wind blowing through the gap in the panes, making the curtains flap loudly. The moonlight casts a deep blue into my bedroom, shades of indigo and black mixing together like paint on a wet palette. Strangely enough, the ordinarily busy London street below is silent, and it feels for a moment as if a strong atmosphere of death has descended over the world. 

I sit up slowly, despite my racing heart, full of worry, and find my feet swinging themselves over the side of the bed, settling themselves on the floor with a _thump._ As if of its own volition, my body moves towards the open window, strangely warm despite the cool breeze against my skin. Looking out of the window, I search the street for a presence that I feel but cannot see. Normally, this is where my dreams become nightmares, but tonight the only horrifying thing about this moment is that I know I'm not alone, but I can't see who I'm not alone _with._

Almost as if synchronised with my fear reaching a crescendo, a dark shadow is cast across the entire street, eclipsing the full moon above. The streetlights flicker out slowly, and then all of a sudden in one smooth wave of darkness that envelopes the whole street. My eyes travel upward, higher and higher until they meet with the source of the shadow - the source which is flying away quite rapidly, the beat of its large, leathery wings like thunder in the silence of the witching hour. 

_A dragon._ I draw in a sharp breath as it looks back at me, bright yellow eyes glowing gold in the dark. It opens its mouth to speak, and I'm expecting...I don't know, a deep, Tolkien-esque voice like Smaug from _Lord of the Rings_ (my father's favourite book series). Instead, his voice is a hushed hiss, and if I wasn't watching his mouth move I'm sure I would have thought I imagined the sound. 

_"Wake up, Circe,"_ He whispers with a strange urgency, that serpentine voice bouncing off the cement below and the clear sky above.

"What do you mean?" I find myself asking aloud, brows creasing in worry and eyes wide with concern. "I can't - "

The beast looks over his shoulder, blinks once and, as it leaves my view, I hear his voice clear as day in my ears. _"They're coming."_

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. · _  
_

Something aboutAlatar's letter leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Admittedly, I'm the thing that drove us apart, the part of the friendship that dove off the cliff into the great abyss of nothing. It's true that, although there is no evidence of remaining bad blood between us, there is an irredeemable rift that I'm hoping will vanish as soon as I see him. Disgruntled, I find myself informing my boss of my early tea break. 

She tuts disappointedly over a cup of tea. "That's a real shame," she muses as I stand across the office from her, "Because Gwydion Blake is coming in today."

I stifle a gasp, watching as Madeline's strong, sharp features grow into a satisfied grin. _"Gwydion Blake?"_ I ask in disbelief. 

She nods slowly. "Yep. The best and brightest. How long has it been since we've had a celebrity naturalist in the building?"

"But - but - doesn't he work for the Ministry?" I stutter, mouth still agape. Gwydion Blake is a name witches and warlocks frequently see pop up in the papers. Handsome beyond the imagination and a world-class magizoologist, Blake is a rockstar in the world of Natural Wizardry. 

"He does, but you know how it is - we rescue a pride of illegally dealt Chimeras from Athens, we get our chance at being in the Daily Prophet." Madeline takes a long sip of her tea before placing her cup back in its saucer. "You'd better leave before he gets here, otherwise we'll never get rid of you."

"Of course," I snap back to my senses and slip my coat on, self-consciously glancing down at my black boots. Figaro miaows at me from his place perched on my office chair, not eager to move, and I wink at him. "Thank you, Doctor Evergreen."

"See you when you get back!" She calls after me as I hurry to the door, taking note of how late I am to see Alatar.

By the time I've remembered that I can simply apparate from one end of London to the other, I'm fifteen minutes overdue and incredibly flustered. Imagine this - I'm skipping my chance at meeting _the_ Gwydion Blake to have a chat with an old friend. _Ugh._ It doesn't get much sadder than that. 

_Circe,_ I scold myself as I stumble down Diagon Alley towards the Ice Cream Parlour, _You need to focus when you apparate._

By the time the Parlour is within view, I can see Alatar sitting at our old favourite outdoor table, under a rainbow umbrella. He has the menu in front of him and is inspecting it with a worried expression on his face - more concerned than I remember him ever looking. Even though it's late Autumn, the sun beats down on his face, creeping through gaps in the shelter and making his skin glisten with sweat. 

He's grown up since I last saw him. It used to be me who felt much more mature than Alatar, but even from a few hundred metres away, I can tell that he's grown taller, stronger and more handsome. His old scruffy head of light hair is now combed back off his face, revealing a strong jawline and those big, soulful eyes I can never forget. As I approach, he sees me coming from his vantage point. Alatar's eyes light up in a mixture of nervousness and euphoria and he stands to greet me. Before either of us registers what's happening, I've pulled him into a hug. _Gosh,_ I think to myself, _he even smells grown up, now._

"If it isn't the one and only Alatar Voneus," I remark as we let go of each other. He sports navy robes and a grey tie. "And sharply dressed. Hot date with Priya tonight?"

He blushes a little. "No, just a presentation at the Ministry."

"Aurors have to give presentations?" I scoff. "That's a bit sad."

Alatar shrugs, hurrying to change the subject. "And how are you, Kettleheart?"

 _Kettleheart._ Hearing him address me like we're back in Hogwarts again takes me back. An overwhelming wave of memories, good _and_ bad, rush to the surface. "I'm well enough," I tell him through my current state, "And you?"

He motions for me to sit down, running a hand through his hair. As the waiter arrives, Alatar says, "I'm well, also. Would you like to order?"

I sigh dramatically, scanning my eyes over the menu. It's a good thing we haven't met since the Battle, because the Ice Cream Parlour has really gone downhill since Florean Fortescue's death. He was a genius when it came to ice cream, whether it be magical flavours or just ordinary sugar and cream. Now, the selection is pretty stock-standard, with no charmed options in sight. 

"I'll have a scoop of Tutti Fruity and a glass of strawberry lemonade, please," I tell the waiter.

Voneus looks about the menu for a moment and orders two scoops of Peanut Brittle before handing both of our menus to the waiter and thanking him graciously. "I see your taste hasn't changed," He informs me.

"And yours have...matured." There's a pause in between us for a moment, in which I recollect our first meeting. Then, to snap myself out of this, I ask, "So, how's Priya?"

Alatar's face softens into something between wistful and adoring as he thinks of his new wife. "She would definitely be better if you'd come to the wedding."

"I..." I trail off, hesitant. "I'm sorry."

I wish I could say more, actually _tell him_ why I didn't go the wedding that I received a lovingly handmade invitation for. The wedding that I would've been the best...best _woman?_ for. I don't know how to put into words the fact that, for the last five years, I've been trying to forget Hogwarts ever happened. It's why I live in Central London. It's why I forget that I can apparate. It's why I do _anything,_ really, but the reminder is still there, hanging in the air like the darkness once a curse has been spoken. Alatar's eyes widen almost imperceptibly as they look into mine, and in this instant I'm sure he knows everything that I have to say.

"It's alright, Kettleheart," He says gently, moving his hand across the table to place it on top of mine. "I understand."

"But it's not really alright, is it?" I reply, my thumb fondly swiping his knuckles. 

He doesn't say anything, and this is how I know it really _isn't_ alright, but he won't let me hear about it. It's inexcusable, really, that even after four and a half years of not speaking, you don't attend your best friend's wedding. 

I remember the Christmas that he spent with my family after his parents were killed. How kind he was to my older sister, Ophelia, despite the fact that most wizards and witches from pureblood families would never give a Muggle the time of day. I swallow a painful lump of sadness in my throat. Alatar opens his mouth to say something, but the waiter has arrived with our order by this point. I gratefully take a sip of lemonade after thanking him, swallowing hard. 

"I wish I could go back and fix things," I tell him miserably. "I really owe you that much."

"I owe you just as much, if not more," Alatar insists. "You've saved my life on several occasions."

"As have you," I reply a little insistently. "But I also definitely don't deserve your friendship. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out why you wrote to me."

He sighs, taking a bite of his ice cream, no doubt for the purpose of buying himself more time to mull over the right words to say. Finally, he reasons, "Not a day goes by that I don't think about our life at Hogwarts. Do you think about it at all?"

 _"Merlin's Beard,_ I wish I didn't have to," I answer before I can stop myself. Then, realising my hasty choice in words, I rush to correct myself, smoothing a curl of hair off my forehead. "Not you! I loved growing up with you. I mean...the other stuff, y'know?"

"I get it," He informs me with a good-natured laugh. "I know that what I call a gift, you might call a curse."

I nod, stifling a yawn despite my gratitude for Alatar's understanding.

He frowns, concerned. "How long has it been since you've slept?"

"Actually!" I stick my index finger in the air matter-of-factly, excited, "I slept last night for the first time in a while."

"And how long is _a while?"_ Alatar asks carefully.

Shrugging, I lean back in my seat and take a large gulp of icy lemonade to hide my reddening cheeks. _This is so embarrassing,_ I tell myself. _He's going to judge you so much._ "Oh, y'know..." I tell him enigmatically. "...about five years?"

His jaw drops. "That's fucking ridiculous."

"It's not!" I exclaim, holding back a scowl. "I've just been busy."

"You haven't," He insists, "But you _have_ been avoiding sleep for a very particular reason. You know that's not healthy, right?"

"Well...I don't mind, much." I frown a little to myself, pushing my spoon absently through melting ice cream.

Alatar shakes his head. "Listen...I know what's happening here, and I think you should know that Priya and I have been worried about you everyday since the wedding. We skipped _our_ honeymoon because we argued about it."

"You sound like my mum and dad," I grumble.

Alatar chuckles. "At least we sound like grown-ups. I can see that you're unhappy. I can't promise that I can magically make you happy, but I miss you and I want you to know that we're here for you."

 _"Alatar,"_ I say his name insistently. "You know I'm fine, right?" But we both know I'm teetering on the edge of insanity, thinly veiled under the guise of normalcy. Lonely, sleep-deprived...bad at my job. The whole thing.

"I know, I know," He assures me, but the lie weighs heavy on his tongue, making his voice low and as soft blue with melancholy as his eyes. "It's been too long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George is in the next chapter I promise lol <3


	3. It's a Muggle Thing

**I WILL NEVER FORGET** the first time I stepped into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Along with a cohort of other fresh-faced children, I was ushered into the Great Hall by none other than Professor McGonagall. I was so nervous my hands were shaking, but every so often the movement of a warm, sleeping kitten as it stirred against my heart from the inside pocket of my robes reassured me. 

Before I'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, my mother had put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me with sincere eyes. Orion and my father were waiting back on Platform 9, albeit reluctantly, and my mother had agreed to see me off. I remember my older sister being _so_ jealous of me! Six years older than me and not a single trace of magic, and yet here I was, about to be sorted into my House.

My mother reminded me, eyes fondly fixed on my worried face, _"Remember, Circe, all Houses are equal. It doesn't matter where you get sorted."_

I knew what my mum meant, I suppose, but I also knew that she was a Ravenclaw and her secret wish was probably that I would be put there, too. Still, I didn't know where I wanted to go, just that Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor sounded garbage. But my typically short fuse, even at eleven years old, probably wouldn't accommodate Hufflepuff too well. There wasn't any reason I couldn't try my luck, though. 

When McGonagall called my name and plopped the grumpy old Sorting Hat on my head, I smoothed the front of my robes down self-consciously, feeling the kitten I'd so fondly named Figaro turn sleepily in my pocket, purring softly. Almost as soon as the Hat became aware of my presence.

 _"Aha!"_ He exclaimed loudly. "Another Kettleheart. Always thought there'd be more of you, but here you are. Your mother was an excellent student here, what was her name... _ah, yes,_ Aurora! Wonderful girl indeed."

Murmurs passed over the crowd. _"Aurora Kettleheart?"_ Students mumbled. _"She's one of the best healers at St. Mungo's."_

I felt my cheeks go red, praying for the torture to be over as quickly as possible. 

Swallowing hard, my breath hitched in my throat as the Hat remarked, "I can see that you're destined for great things...where to put you, is the question? Slytherin would be ideal, but you'd hate that, wouldn't you? Of course the obvious choice would be Ravenclaw like all the Kettlehearts before you, but...you seem reluctant about the idea. Gryffindor? Certainly not."

I could feel my face heating up even further with a mix of irritation and embarrassment. Everybody else's soiree with the Sorting Hat seemed to take only seconds, yet here I was, perched on a seat before the entire student - _and staff! -_ body of Hogwarts, waiting for what felt like eternity to be placed in a house.

 _"Yes,"_ The Hat hissed suddenly, catching me off-guard, "There's that short temper of yours. You know what they say about anger, don't you? It disguises great power, and yet...I think Hufflepuff would the best place for you. There you are - _Hufflepuff!"_

Hufflepuff erupted with cheers and, face flushed with nerves, I rushed to the House table whose flag shone gold and black. The first years who had already been sorted into Hufflepuff greeted me with fond smiles, and the second years waved, regarding us with curiosity. I sat down in a spare seat next to a scruffy looking little boy with a mop of dark hair flopping over hazel eyes. 

"Is your mum really Aurora Kettleheart?" He asked me in way of greeting. When I nodded, his eyes lit up. "My dad works in the same ward as her! He says she cures Vanishing Sickness like nobody's business."

We chatted for a moment about Hogwarts, the truly enchanting surroundings and the journey to school. Finally, I stuck my hand out for him to take. "Circe Kettleheart," I told him with as confident a smile as I could manage. 

He flashed me an easy grin and took my hand, shaking it eagerly. "Alatar Voneus!" He chirped back, "Lovely to make your acquaintance." 

Without warning, the anticipated Grand Banquet materialised - seemingly out of thin air - and every student cheered. I was still in awe at the spread - roast turkeys, sandwiches, vegetable stews still steaming and every flavour of ice cream one could imagine - when one of the older students stood up at the Hufflepuff table and held up a goblet of apple juice.

"First years!" She exclaimed excitedly, freckled face broken into a grin, "Welcome to the first night of the rest of your lives!"

We'd all been so excited back then, but if I'd know that night that my dreams would spell out the fate of the Wizarding World, I might not have been so happy.

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. ·

I'm standing in a field behind what looks like an oversized cottage. The sky is bright blue without a cloud in sight - the sun high and crisp in the noon sky. Warmth radiates from every pore of my body, and all I can think as I stand ankle deep in green wild grass is, _this is so lovely._ The house seems to be calling to me. It's impossibly taller than an ordinary cottage, something like five stories tall. It almost looks like multiple cottages sewn together - my ideal living space. I move towards it, and even as I begin to take a step, I'm suddenly much closer than I anticipated, like the house was always quite close to me. 

A line of stems sprout from the side of the far wall, tucked away from the sun under the eaves of the roof. I drop to my knees in the soft bed of grass and go to pull one out, bracing myself for the deafening squeals of a Mandragora (thank you, Head of House Professor Sprout). Instead, though, I've unearthed the very familiar bulb of a certain root plant, stems tall and proud. _Ginger._

 _Kettleheart,"_ A voice echoes across the sky, booming in my ears. _"Kettleheart!"_

My eyes snap open, and I feel my entire body jolt under the scrutiny of Madeline Evergreen. "Um." I stare up at her, worried. "Doctor Evergreen. I was just thinking, I wasn't - "

"It's alright, Kettleheart, you didn't even have any incoming manuscripts," Madeline laughs. She's tall, much taller than me, with a pale face and dark hair tamed tightly into a bun behind her head. "But if you'd like I can give you work."

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Evergreen, I can - "

She cuts me off a second time. "How about instead of apologising, you make it up to me - to all of us - by getting us our favourite ice cream from Fortescue's?"

This catches me off guard. Normally, Madeline is very nice, but today she's even more understanding than usual. "Is there a special occasion, ma'am?"

Madeline can't quite hide her grin. "Yes, actually. Mr. Blake is coming back in a few minutes, and it'll be nice to get something in to reward everyone for their extra hard work while he's been visiting."

Absentmindedly, I glance down at my watch. _Almost noon._ If I head out now, I'll be back before _the_ Gwydion Blake gets here. Oh, Merlin. I even have to hold in a scream just thinking about him on the front of that poster on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom that I used to kiss before bed every night - he would wink and flash that charming smile and, I mean, who'd be able to resist? 

When I was in school, Gwydion Blake was an upcoming young heartthrob, not more than a year or so older than my sister, but now, he's a proper man. Maybe I sound desperately lonely, but he's definitely very good looking. I write down everybody's orders as quickly as I can, but it feels like forever has passed by the time I've removed my wand to apparate a little distractedly. 

By the time the rush of apparation has worn off, my mind being in two places at once has definitely taken its toll. Normally, I'm not the best at this sort of transport, and I'm notoriously late because apparating has never come naturally for me, but the last few months I've been even _more_ off the mark than usual. I find myself at the very beginning of Diagon Alley, next to the Leaky Cauldron. Sighing dramatically, I begin the trek to the Ice Cream Parlour. I'm definitely not dressed the part, wearing nothing over the breezy white blouse and brown trousers I sport in the office, and within moments the Autumn breeze has made my nose red and my skin puckered with goosebumps.

Still, I soldier onwards, past Flourish and Blotts and the Magical Menagerie. The latter brings back fond memories - memories in which my family took me to pick out a pet to be my companion at Hogwarts but nothing was within our price range. I went home, defeated, but the morning of my departure, my dad surprised me with a little black kitten he rescued from the storm gutter the night before. Little did I know that the rescued cat - who Ophelia fondly named _Figaro,_ from Pinocchio (this was to annoy me - the whale scene in this film always scared me so much that I would run from the room screaming) - was actually part Kneazle! I should probably have known from the different coloured eyes - one bright yellow and the other pure white - and the big belly, but it was very helpful, nonetheless, to feel the reassuring weight of a large half-Kneazle at my feet, snoring gently all the while. Now, nearing twelve years old, Figaro is only really a little boy in Kneazle years, but still appears fully grown. 

I spot the Ice Cream parlour after what feels like an eternity of walking but is really only about two minutes. As I'm making my way across the busy cobblestone street, alive with witches and wizards of every kind going about their daily errands, somebody bumps into me and, off-balance and distracted, I find myself and my purse on the ground, side by side.

 _"Ouch!"_ I exclaim a little dramatically as I register the current state of affairs. My backside hurts, and I'm certain there'll be a bruise in a matter of hours, but I've got that _No-Bruise_ rubbing potion at home, the kind that my mother often uses on the wizards in the Non-Magical Injuries Ward at the hospital. 

"Are you alright - " An all-too-familiar voice begins before it cuts itself off again. " - _Circe Kettleheart?"_

Nervously, I look up at the face silhouetted against the noon sun, unable to make out anything more than a short, messy head of ginger hair. My dream from no longer than a few minutes comes rushing back to me - _ginger. Twelve o'clock in the afternoon. That strange cottage._

"George Weasley." I enunciate the words carefully as, nervously, I run a hand over the strands of my hair that are tightly held in place by a crocodile clip behind my skull, tucked a stray curl behind my ear. 

The George Weasley in question - who the hell else would it be, with my luck? - manages a warm smile at me, holding out a hand to help me up. His fingers are long and pink, nails short and neat. Every single part of him is unforgettable - how depressing.

"How's the weather down there?" He asks me, helping me to my feet the second I put my palm in his. Just as I remember from the time I may or may not have saved his life (the reason I am so reluctant to see him now), his hand is warm, calloused with years of mischief and hexes - and, of course, a bloody war.

I try not to scowl too deeply as I dust my bottom off, ignoring the flush of sudden heat in my cheeks as it finally dawns on me who I'm talking to - only the name on the top of the list of people I've been praying I'll never have to see again! For a moment, I think his _how's the weather?_ joke is directed at my height - he's evidently a good head or so taller than me, he and his brother always were, even in school - but then I remember that I only just managed to get up off the footpath.

"A bit cold, if I'm being honest," I tell him with a polite smile. 

I watch George carefully for a reaction, but he only gives me a grin before his eyes flicker down to our hands, still attached to one another. Almost reflexively, I detach my fingers from his, clasping my hands behind me as I glance up at him, inwardly begging my pink cheeks to fade back to their usual olive tone. 

There's a tense silence between us, before George says, "Well, Kettleheart, I never got to properly thank you for...y'know."

I wave a dismissive hand at him and say, "That was five years ago - besides, there isn't any need to thank me for doing something anyone else would've done as well." 

There's so much more I want to say, though, beyond a simple, _no thanks needed!_ I want to tell him I'm sorry. 

I'm sorry for pulling you away from being the target of a killing curse so roughly. I'm sorry for calling you Half-wit George behind your back in my fifth year because I had a big crush on you (even though we had _never_ spoken!). I'm sorry that it caught on and when you and Fred tried to trace it back to its point of origin, I blamed Draco Malfoy in the year below me. Most of all, though, I'm sorry for not being able to save your brother.

Instead of saying all these things, though, I stay silent, regarding him with focus I haven't felt in a long time. He just continues to grin at me, before leaning over to ruffle my hair like a grown-up does to a small child, making me frown.

"I almost didn't recognise you without those glasses of yours," George tells me, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. 

Speaking of his outfit, it seems a little but...unlike one of the Weasley twins. I remember, in my last year at Hogwarts, when they graduated and opened up Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Red and gold prinstripe suits, satin shirts in every colour of the rainbow and an endless assortment of eye catching striped socks. Today, though, George Weasley isn't quite how I remember him. Instead, he feels like a version of himself that I might see in a dream - dressed in grey trousers and a plain black jumper. The only form of colour on his person is the red hair he can never seem to get rid of.

"I got contacts," I inform George proudly.

He raises an eyebrow. "Contacts? What - what is that?" He asks a little weakly.

I almost laugh, but manage to hold it in. "Oh, sorry, I forgot - it's a Muggle thing. Contact lenses."

 _"Oh,_ contact lenses. Of course I know what those are!" He insists. "But you know what they say - once a speccy git, always a speccy git."

I remember, for a moment, the first (and second last) time I met the Weasley twins. I was quiet in school, friendly but not really too adventurous when it came to mingling, although not much has changed. I remember the day because it was my twelfth birthday, and I had only been at Hogwarts for a couple of months. 

I was walking towards the Hufflepuff Common Room, skirting the edges of the winding corridor that led to the kitchens. It was, I think, a Saturday afternoon, and my mum and dad had sent me a cake Ophelia had baked for me, decorated to look like a clock (and enchanted by my mother so the hands moved!). I clutched it for dear life, along with the card they'd written me, my belly full of the salad sandwiches and roast chicken I had just finished eating. The hallway was empty - everybody was out for the first snow of the cold season - but as I approached the painting guarding the entrance to the Common Room, I heard two voices mumbling to each other.

Upon rounding the corner, I stopped in my tracks, staring at the Weasley twins, who were already notorious despite only being in their second year at Hogwarts - tall, wiry and scarily identical, with messy heads of red hair, sparkling eyes and faces full of freckles. They were grumbling to each other about something, standing close to the large still-life portrait of a fully dressed dinner table that made the door to the Common Rooms. 

_"Alohamora,"_ One of the twins whispered, tapping his wand against the painting's frame. Naturally, nothing happened.

The other boy smacked the back of his brother's head. _"Oi, dimwit!"_ He hissed. "Did you really think just saying _alohamora_ was going to get us in there?"

I couldn't hold myself back any longer. I was twelve years old and the Weasley twins were, if nothing else, a welcome surprise in the late Autumn lull of Hogwarts. 

I said, loudly enough to startle them with my sudden presence, "You guys know it's unlocked, right?"

They both jumped, spinning on their heels with wide eyes to look at me. "Of course we knew that!" One of them replied. "Didn't we know that already, George?"

The one named George nodded along as sincerely as he could. "Most certainly did, Fred." Then, he stood away from the door, motioning for his brother, Fred, to do the same. "Ladies first, though."

I tried not to blush, given the circumstances. I knew what was going to happen next, and honestly? What a great birthday treat it'd be if it worked. So, I waved them on. "Oh, no, you two go first." In my head, I thought, _you deserve it, for having the courage to break into the Hufflepuff Common Room._

Fred shrugged, tugging the door open quite easily and stepping over the threshold. When he was in fully, and I could see the barrels guarding the actual entrance to the Common Room clearly, he signalled for George to follow him. George looked over his shoulder at me. 

"Are you coming in?" He asked, eyes sparkling. 

"Oh, no, you go in. I'm just waiting for someone." _Yeah,_ I snickered inwardly, _waiting for two someones to get doused in vinegar._

The timing was impeccable - within moments, a crowd of Hufflepuff first years, accompanied by a few second year students, returned with wet gloves and faces red from the cold, stopping in their tracks when they saw me standing and waiting expectantly for something to happen behind the closed entrance to the Common Room. Alatar pushed his way through the small crowd and raised his eyebrows at me, as if to ask, _what's happening?_

I opened my mouth to tell the crowd what was about to happen, as quietly as I could, but the twins beat me to the punch as the door swung open and the air filled with the thick, sour stench of vinegar. It's always been my least favourite smell, but in such large amounts, it's nearly unbearable. The Weasley twins stepped back into the corridor, dripping wet with a substance clear like water but acidic and odorous like nothing else could ever be. The crowd emitted sounds of unanimous disgust, glaring at the brothers, who stared at me, betrayed. Their hair, once tastefully unkempt, was now plastered to their foreheads. I couldn't help but feel bad almost immediately - this was so unlike me! I might've warned them, but, oh, I don't know - it was my birthday! And I was a bit of a dickhead at twelve, who wasn't?

George's voice brings me back to the present. "How've you been, Kettleheart?" He asks, finally. 

I shrug. "Fine, I s'pose." Then, I remember why I've been avoiding him once again, and my heart sinks. "And what about you, Weasley?"

He shrugs, too. "Alright." 

For a moment I want to let him leave it at that, but the most evil part of my brain remembers that little crush I had on him right before the Battle of Hogwarts, and the huge crush he had on the famous Angelina Johnson - she was prettier, older and a Quidditch _whiz,_ and George knew she existed, how could I compete? - and I decide against it. 

Instead, I heave a small sigh. "What do you do these days, then?" I ask expectantly, flashing him a syrupy sweet smile.

The first time I met him, every single time I saw him around the grounds, even the Battle. He was so _alive_ \- it was something in his eyes. But here, now, George feels, once again, like a hollow version of himself that I might imagine right before my dream turns into a nightmare. He blinks at me - once, twice, three times - and then opens his mouth to speak, forcing his face to brighten up. 

"Nothing much!" He tells me as cheerily as he can, and my heart aches. 

Why would I force him to talk to me when he so clearly doesn't want to? _Fucking hell, Kettleheart!_ My brain shouts at me. _Stop being such a wanker._

George continues, despite the internal scolding I'm receiving from myself. "Johnson - you know, Angelina Johnson? She was in my year - we were seeing each other for a bit and then we sort of...y'know...called it off."

"Wait, really? Gosh, I'm sorry to hear that." _You heartless bitch!_ I shout inwardly at myself. _You're happy that George Weasley, the man with the dead twin, has had his heart broken? How old are you?_ "That sucks."

"Anyway, Alatar told me you work an office job, now - what are you doing out at this time?"

I can tell that George is trying to change the subject, and it works immediately because I move from looking up at him to looking down at my watch. _"Oh, shit!"_ I curse. "I've got to go. I'm just out to get some food for the office and - oh, Merlin, I'm going to be late."

"I'll let you go, then," He tells me, and for a moment I see a spark of George Weasley in the easy smile he gives me. "But I'll see you around, won't I?"

"Of course!" I tell him as sincerely as I can manage. Only, I know it's a bald faced lie.


	4. Reluctant Dreamer

**I'M IN AN EMPTY ROOM,** so dark and warm that I can't make out my hands in front of me. It feels like the space is small for a moment, but then the room widens out until I might be in the bottom of a very deep ravine. I find myself stumbling forward blindly, hands out in front of me and eyes open wide, struggling to get around. Somewhere in the distance, the leathery flapping of a dragon's wings echo out across space and, heart pounding against the raw flesh of my ribs, I begin to rush towards the sound, towards an answer, towards anything. 

The full moon is a spotlight above one particular point a few feet away from me, highlighting the pebbly ground. Among the rocks is a much larger stone, but as I draw closer, still tripping over myself to sate the sudden hunger to reach the lit up spot, the realisation dawns on me that it is a skull. Even though my pulse is so fast that my heart is now an unending buzz in my chest, I drop to my knees and pick the skull up with both hands. It's a little yellow with age, but in places it looks almost _new,_ almost store bought, but not quite, and it's also much heavier than I'm expecting. As I pick it up, raising it to my eye level to inspect it, the spotlight where I'm kneeling seems to narrow so that all I can see is the skull, clear as day.

With seemingly no warning, the jaw opens, and a dark green snake escapes the mouth. I freeze with panic, watching it with impossibly wide eyes as it begins to slowly slither up my arm. Something about the snake is so malevolent,so crawling with a sudden, burdensome sensation of pure _evil,_ it makes my stomach churn. It rears upwards to look at my face carefully, tail wrapped tightly around my forearm. Suddenly, a hiss and a flick of its tail warns me that it is about to bite, and as it lunges at me, mouth open and fangs out, I feel myself collapse into the abyss.

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. ·

Figaro's howls wake me up. The big cat sits on the window sill, large form silhouetted against a strange green light from outside. He glances worriedly between me and something in the sky. My mind flickers back to the strange dream I remember having a few nights ago, when I was visited by a strange dragon. Bones aching from the place asleep on the couch, I hear myself emerging from sleep, grumbling something about it _being three in the morning, and why is the cat so bloody loud?_ I rush to my feet, not bothering to put my feet into my carpet slippers before hurrying to close the distance between Figaro and I.

One of the best parts of having Figaro around - although there are many wonderful aspects of having him as a roommate - is that he guards the house most of the time. His favourite way to waste the day away is to lounge in front of the big glass window in the living room, tail flicking contentedly as he watches the busy street with suspicious eyes.

"What is it, buddy?" I ask him, concern thick in my voice. He's nearing ten, soon, and although kneazles and their half-cat offspring easily live to the same age as magical folk, the Muggle-raised child in me is worried that he's getting old.

I put my hand on the arch of his back absentmindedly as he hisses at something on the other side of the glass, eyes fixed on the sky. I let my gaze shift to this mysterious spot as well, and when, in my sleep-addled state, I've properly processed what's going on, all I can do is curse.

_"Fucking hell."_

A sight I haven't seen since a photograph from the Quidditch World Cup attack in the Daily Prophet something like ten years ago, now, but worse, _so much worse._ The Death Eater mark, sickly green in the middle of the sky. A huge skull, frowning as if, stripped of all flesh, rage is the language of the dead and living. Only, the snake I remember seeing during Death Eater attacks during the Wizarding war is no longer emerging from the skull's mouth, oh no. It's much, much worse. As I watch, the silence that cuts through the night interrupted by Figaro's worried yowling, the skull's jaw opens up so widely that it appears unhinged, _broken._ And a hulking beast - a dragon of a breed that I cannot name - emerges from the wreck. Even as the skull in the sky dissolves into the dark night, it says this: _we are coming, and this time we don't care if we have to break the entire world apart to win._

I can't help but find my mind fixated on the dream of the dragon that I had. _"They're coming,"_ it had said simply, as if this in itself was fact enough for me to understand. Unfortunately, for the first time in a long time, I don't have any clue what's going on (at least where dreams are concerned). I back away from the window, breathing hard, before steeling myself to lean across Figaro and draw the window shut, scooping him up on my way over to my room to feverishly pull on a sweatshirt.

Figaro whimpers at me, as if to ask, _"Is that what I think it is?"_

My vision flickers back to the skull in the sky. _The Dark Mark._

"I really fucking I hope not," I tell him distractedly, heaving for air as I extract my wand from my underwear drawer. The fear I'm feeling climbs from my stomach, clawing its way up to my throat and tightening its hold on my airway. "For all our sakes."

Figaro tilts his head to the side and looks up at me from his place on the floor of my bedroom, confused. He's remarkably intelligent when it comes to things like recognising enemies, admiring the shine of his black fur in the mirror and starting conversation, but when it comes to wrapping his head around anything much deeper than _what's that?,_ he's lost. I reach down to scoop him up and tuck him under my arm, shouldering a bag on the opposite, one with enough room to hold the Encyclopaedia of Dragons that I know I left on my desk at work. Even though I know virtually nothing about this new and terrible occurrence, dragons and other beasts are something I have expertise over. I'm hoping that if I can decipher the mark's new changes, I can figure out what the hell is going on. And what better way to do so than to read up on dragons?

In this moment, as I draw my wand into the air, ready to apparate, I can't help but recall meeting a certain George Weasley today, entirely by mistake. I wonder how he is, how he _really_ is, beyond lying about being "alright". If my sister, my Ophelia, were to die, I would probably waste away into nothingness. I've seen the crowds around his shop, _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes -_ the one he started with Fred during my last year at Hogwarts. I wonder how he continues to run it. 

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. ·

"Alright, Kettleheart?" A voice cuts through the rush of apparating, one that is warm with familiarity.

My heart sinks, because right now I'm not hoping for familiarity - I'm hoping for an answer, and a way to stem the flow of panic rapidly clouding my vision.

Glancing at my surroundings, I realise that I am standing outside 93 Diagon Alley, the street lit only by a light in front of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. George leans against the front window of the shop, arms crossed and one ankle over the other, a crooked smile fixed on his face, paired with sleep-addled puffy eyes. He's sporting a pair of grey flannel pyjama pants, neatly tucked under a deep red sweatshirt.

"Yeah, thanks, Weasley," I reply as curtly as possible, letting Figaro jump from my arms and rush to stand by George for what I'm guessing he hopes is _protection._ Sometimes he can be really thick. "What're you doing out here?"

He shrugs easily, that smile still fixed on his face. For a moment, I'm distracted by the appearance of his messy hair - the year before he graduated, George and Fred grew their hair long, almost to their shoulders, but now his hair is cut as short as I remember it looking during the Battle of Hogwarts, and mussed up by a few hours against a pillow. _Pretty cute,_ I catch myself musing, _even without that extra ear._ That spare ear. I wonder where it went?

"Oh, y'know, it _is_ my shop." Then, George turns his attention to Figaro, who is carefully sniffing at his bed slippers, eyes wide with worry. "And who might this be?"

"That's Figaro," I tell him, voice trembling with a combination of the cool breeze and fear. "Sorry, he's a bit...nervous."

"And is he the only one?" George asks me, eyes sparkling with something like a smile. "Because you're sort of outside my shop at half past three in the morning with a cat."

Figaro growls to himself, and I'm presuming that the word _cat_ doesn't sit right with him, because he returns to my side, looking up at George with feigned disinterest, as if to let him know that he might have hurt Figaro's feelings, but he has definitely _not_ taken away Figaro's pride!

"How did you know I was out here before I even arrived?" I inquire, puzzled. It is quite strange - normally wizarding alarms only trip up _after_ somebody's apparated, not before. But then, although I hate to admit it, George Weasley is a bit of a genius.

"You're not the only one with precognitive powers, Kettleheart," He informs me teasingly. When my mouth drops open, in awe, he immediately cuts me off with a chuckle, pushing himself up off the wall. "Only joking. It's a little something I set up. You know what the youth are like these days."

 _"No,"_ I answer, smiling. "Do you?"

"No, actually." George looks me up and down, raising his eyebrows. I realise now how silly I must look, a pink and yellow striped sweatshirt wrestled over the clothes I bumped into him in yesterday, the clothes I fell asleep wearing. "The youth are bloody confusing. Do you want to come in, then, if you won't tell me why you're outside my shop?"

I shake my head frantically, glancing about the dark, empty street behind me. "Actually, I meant to go to work, but I ended up _here,_ somehow..."

Once I've trailed off, George's grin reaches shit-eating proportions. "So you were thinking about _me,_ then, Kettleheart?"

"Shut up, Weasley," I grumble, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my trousers. I pretend to be hurt, but I'm actually surprised that I haven't been splinched as yet. Maybe I should stop apparating for a bit...but what good what that do?

I watch George carefully as he shoulders open the door to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes which, even in the witching hour darkness, is still brightly coloured against the dull background of Diagon Alley. Once he's all the way inside the door, his right foot the only thing outside the shop, he glances at me over his shoulder, face expectant. 

"Well?" He prompts, impatience edging at his voice. "I saw the Dark Mark outside, as well. It's not exactly safe out here. Are you coming in or not?"

"But I have to - " Then I cut myself off. "Why aren't you worried?"

"That stupid bald dickhead is dead isn't he?" George asks, obviously referring to Voldemort, the name we'd all been afraid to utter for years. 

I was born in the middle of the First Wizarding War, and so were George Weasley and his brother, Fred. Being a half-blood submerged in a Muggle childhood, though, I didn't even realise until after starting at Hogwarts.

I almost laugh at his words, but the way he says it all is dead serious, so instead, nervously, I clear my throat. "Yeah, alright, I'll come in - but only if you're not busy."

"Well, it's three in the morning and I'm awake, so how busy could I be, Kettleheart?" Even though he's trying to sound happy, the sleep stained roughness in his voice adds an edge to his tone. 

Head lowered in embarrassment, I duck into the shop behind him. My head is still addled with sleep and the haze that settles over the world when one dreams, but I've finally wrapped my head around what's happened - I accidentally apparated to George Weasley's store instead of the Rescue Foundation. _Oh, god,_ how can somebody be so stupid? And, more pressingly, how have I not been splinched as yet?

Trying to fan my face back to room temperature without letting George know, I find myself clasping my hands hurriedly in front of my stomach when he turns to look at me, standing in the middle of the darkened main room. 

"Are you okay over there?" He asks with a smile in his eyes, and I know he's seen me fanning my face. He holds back a laugh as he continues leading me deeper into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Yes," I grumble, following him up the stairwell. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"Upstairs," George calls over his shoulder.

I roll my eyes. "I know _that,_ Mister Obvious. I mean where will going upstairs take us?"

"To my flat, of course!"

In my daze, my foot catches on the runner tracing the stairway and I stumble forward, scaling a couple of steps without thinking and catching myself with my hands clinging to the fabric around the small of George's back. 

He turns to grip one of my biceps almost reflexively, holding me steady. I can't contain the rope of anxious laughter that finds its way out of my throat. "I'm so sorry," I start to apologise.

"For what?" He asks, eyes gleaming. "You've only violated me in my own home, haven't you?"

The blush grips my cheeks and chest before I can stop it, and I look at my feet. Note to self: _half past three in the morning is not an ideal time to meet someone you had a crush on five years ago._ "I didn't mean to, I was just - sorry."

George helps me steady myself a moment before ushering me in front of him, I presume so that he can catch me if I trip over again. "I'm only joking, Kettleheart. Besides, I know you can't help being a klutz."

By now, we've scaled two more flights of stairs and are now on the fourth floor of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. George brushes past me, conjuring his wand from seemingly nowhere (although I do have a sneaking suspicion that he stored it in his underwear for safe keeping) and waving it silently at a large red set of double-doors at the top of the stairs. Without having to utter a word, two taps of a wand later and the door swings open as if of their own volition, revealing a diminutive entryway, the walls painted a faint red, gold and blue that must have faded over time. A lush rug adorns the corridor, but this too looks dulled down, like it hasn't been restored in years. There is _something_ bright in all this, though, something that emphasises the good old George Weasley charm - decor hanging from the walls and ceilings, decor that, quite frankly, I'm afraid to look at too closely in case they've been jinxed by George. A small, lifelike blue whale hangs from the ceiling with a big smile on its face. When I walk under it, it emits a huge cloud of green gas that cloaks the corridor behind me in a horrible stench like rotting fruit.

"What is _that?"_ I ask breathlessly, following George inside the entryway like a lost child, "It smells like..."

"It's a prototype," He tells me. "The _Windy Whale,_ it was going to be called - a good gag gift for baby showers. Anyway, I retired the idea after the War ended, so that's just hanging there. It does that every time I come in."

I take a gander and guess that Fred and George must have come up with the Windy Whale together, simply from the way George's shoulders fall defeatedly as we enter the living room.

"Sorry about the mess," He says as I walk in behind him, "I haven't had time to recast charms for a while."

It shocks me how empty the living room - it's all bare bones. Nothing but a couch, a small, cedar wood end table with an old transistor radio and a stack of leather-bound books crookedly laid on top. No rugs. No pictures, posters or paintings - not even a vase of flowers (and coming from somebody who always has flower clippings stuffed into glass bottles, this is _unbelievable!)._

"It's...um." Dumbfounded, I try to find a compliment he'll appreciate. _Minimal? Clean? Stiflingly empty._ "Nice."

While I'm still kicking myself for telling George his shitty living room is _nice_ (nice? Really?), he just laughs and shakes his head. "It's okay, I know it's shit. It used to be _much_ nicer, when...well, y'know."

Oh, gosh. What's happened to George? I remember coming into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes my last year of high school. It was _incredible,_ and the twins were undeniably the best part. Always hanging around in their bright outfits and wicked grins, they seemed so...alive. Now, so much has happened and George's house looks like the inside of a _shipping container._

I nod slowly, uncomfortably, at his words and pick up a whiny Figaro, who appears generally unimpressed with the whole state of affairs. He seems heavier under the watchful eye of George, who regards us with twinkling eyes. 

"He, um..." I trail off a moment, swallowing nervously before I can explain myself, "...he gets a bit worried, especially because of the whole, y'know...Dark Mark thing."

"Speaking of the Dark Mark, if you and I saw it, then Merlin knows who else did," George begins, motioning for me to sit down. "Wouldn't be surprised if the whole Ministry is in a state of panic."

I lower myself onto the threadbare sofa, absentmindedly scratching a loudly purring Figaro behind the ear. The red vinyl squeaks as it sinks under my weight, and I stifle a gasp at the sudden burst of gas that is emitted from under the cushion, dropping the cat in my arms entirely out of shock. 

George barks a laugh as he leans over to pet Figaro between the shoulder blades. "Sorry, that charm is _impossible_ to get rid of," He tells me, settling down next to me. "Pretty funny when people sit down, though. Angelina hated it, though."

 _Angelina Johnson._ I know the jealousy is unnecessary, because for one thing, I'm not sixteen years old with a crush on George Weasley anymore, and for another thing, women disliking each other for the attention of men is _so_ outdated. Still, my stomach does a backflip and I try to change the topic of conversation. 

"And do you have a lot of people over?" I ask him. 

"Um. No, I don't think so," He replies flatly.

I nod a second time, gazing around the living room a moment before weakly suggesting, "Should we talk about what just happened, then?" 

"Talk about what? The unexpected new friendship that's just formed or the Dark Mark?"

 _"The Dark Mark,"_ I deadpan. 

George stands up, clapping once to emphasise the motion. "Great! So I'll go get us some tea then, _friend."_

In this moment, I can only think two things. One: Voldemort's followers are trying to make their comeback and I'm stuck in George Weasley's flat. And, of course, two: I've just been dragged into a friendship with said George Weasley.


	5. Son of a Gun!

**AT NIGHT,** everything seems much more profound and impactful. Case in point - it is late afternoon and the sun has not set as yet, but it is dipping low and large on the horizon, lazily silhouetted in languid pink and red streaks, and the world is fresh and new again, no longer tainted by green skulls and dragons. My mother - who has never been the most effective Seer - has always been quite superstitious. Her family - the Kettleheart bloodline - were, at some point, simple Muggle sheep herders, roaming the rich landscapes of Persia, believed this: _red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning, red sky at night, shepherd's delight._ And so, seeing the blood orange sunset comforts me, in a way.

Alatar is sitting at our regular table outside Florean Fortescue's, despite the humid twilight weather. He's wearing a sleek black suit with dishevelled hair, which can only really mean one thing - he's just come off a mission in Muggle territory. He sees me as I approach, standing up with bright eyes to hug me. I accept gratefully, breathing in the familiar scent of him. Despite the fact that he is now, well and truly a man, he still smells like good ol' Alatar - mint, that Muggle cologne _(Dior,_ no less) I bought him as a graduation gift and clean laundry. When I pull away, I realise that the embrace was not initiated out of fondness, but out of worry.

He wrings his hands nervously, sitting himself down once again. "I've already ordered," Alatar tells me hurriedly, "I hope that's alright."

"Uh...of course, mate. Thanks." The tone of our meeting has instantly been revealed to me - no wonder Alatar would want to meet urgently after work - it's about the Dark Mark. The Dark Mark in the sky last night which has now, for me, faded into oblivion. 

He motions for me to sit down, glancing around us nervously. Although it's early evening, the streets are bustling with life as witches and wizards rush to finish work and errands before returning home. When Alatar catches me watching him carefully, one eyebrow raised, he apologises profusely, mopping at his glistening brow. 

"Sorry," he splutters, "Just...you never know who could be listening in. There are ears everywhere, nowadays."

"That's okay," I assure him through a giggle. "Is this about what I think it is?"

"If you're talking about the Dar - " Alatar begins, cut off by the waiter arriving with our order, my Tutti Fruiti ice cream already melting in the unusual heat of the evening air. "Thank you," He says breathlessly, instantly stuffing a spoonful of Peanut Brittle into his mouth frustratedly. 

Once I've thanked the waiter, I turn back to my ice cream companion through a sip of tinkling pink lemonade. "How was your mission?" I ask, glancing at him over the rim of my glass.

"How did you - _right._ The suit." Alatar adjusts the crinkled collar of his crisp white shirt. "It went well. Only had to obliviate one Muggle this time - that's what happens when you work with Harry Potter. He's a genius at this Auror stuff."

"Harry Potter?" I ask in disbelief. 

We both went to school with Harry Potter - _the boy who lived -_ but even though we joined Dumbledore's Army in sixth year, we didn't have much to do with Harry _specifically._ And this makes Alatar working him even more of a slap in the face. 

What am I doing tomorrow morning at seven, I wonder? Oh, that's right - filling out a tonne of paperwork, filing some parchment and then going home. I mean, someone from my department is going to Cairo with _Gwydion Blake -_ yes, superstar Gwydion Blake -to shut down an underground Sphinx trading network, and I'm going to be chained to my desk. The most adventurous thing I'll do is buy a tub of Vanilla Bean ice cream for the office.

"There've been some killings to accompany what happened last night," Alatar tells me, breaking through my thoughts. I know that _what happened last night_ is the Dark Mark. "In Cairo."

"Wait, really? How do you know it's related to last night's - well, y'know?"

"We got word in this morning at the Ministry - wizard's markings left on the bodies. Twenty two dead in one night, all in separate parts of the city." He shakes his head sadly. "It's bloody terrible. Anyway, private investigators are hiring Aurors to look into it. I'm on the shortlist, so fingers crossed."

"Is Harry Potter on the shortlist, by any chance?" I ask drily, trying to stop myself from flashing my old friend a glare.

Alatar nods, running a hand through his messy hair. "He's obviously going to be hired. I doubt he'll go, though - he's getting married next month."

My shoulders relax, although I'm still tense. Alatar's out in the world achieving so much - saving _lives!_ That's what I signed up to Magizoology to do. Well, that and see the world, but here's my childhood friend, doing both of those things. 

All I can manage to choke out in response is, "Oh, that's sweet."

"I'll let you know what I find," Alatar informs me through a mouthful of melting Peanut Brittle. "So, what've you been up to at work? Saving bowtruckles and setting up dragon sanctuaries left and right, I expect?"

I can't help it - the lie spills from my lips before I can stop it. There's something bittersweet about lying. Sweet because willing something you wish to be true into existence has such a satisfying effect on the soul that you almost, for a second, believe that it's true. And, of course, bitter because it isn't true.

"It's funny that you might be going to Cairo next week," I say without really thinking it through. What are the odds that Alatar will be picked over any other inexperienced Auror willing to put their lives on the line? "Because so am I!"

His eyes light up with pride. "Oh, Merlin, that's amazing, Circe! What for?"

"There's been some illegal Sphinx dealing, and they're sending me and _Gwydion Blake_ to rehabilitate the creatures," I explain. 

The name "Gwydion Blake" has exactly the desire effect on Alatar. His jaw goes slack, mouth open in disbelief and, dare I say it, jealousy. "Gwydion Blake?" He repeats, startstruck. 

I can't help but feel euphoric over my friend's excitement. We've both idolised Gwydion Blake since our first year at Hogwarts, back when he was an upcoming teen heartthrob, recently graduated from Beauxbatons and ready to steal everyone's girl (and everyone else, admittedly).

"Well, congratulations!" Alatar exclaims, collecting himself as well as he can manage. 

I remember getting him a poster of Gwydion Blake for his birthday one year. A huge picture of the celebrity would, every few moments, wave at the viewer with that signature Blake grin and wink move that he does so well whenever he's on the cover of the Daily Prophet. 

Alatar muses, "Imagine if we got to go to Cairo together."

"Yeah!" I chirp as enthusiastically as I can, absentmindedly playing with my ice cream as a strong feeling of impending doom starts to gather like a storm cloud over my head. _"Imagine."_

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I vividly recall lunging at Fred Weasley almost to the day five years ago, and the flash of green light that hit him square in the chest anyway. My stomach turns dangerously and I swallow a mouthful of bile.

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. ·

At night, I let myself dream, and the terror runs deep in my skull the whole time I am sleeping. The imagined corpses of the people killed in the Muggle attacks lying dead, bodies contorted into strange positions. The faces of the dead mock me and tell me that something terrible is coming, something that they can't disclose quite yet. "It's death eaters!" A handsome young man exclaims with such a joyous grin that I am frightened beyond compare. His toothless front gums bleed heavily where he must have knocked his front teeth out falling to his death.

Right before my dreams (or nightmares) end, the man - whose name I'm sure will appear in the Daily Prophet tomorrow morning - stumbles backwards and falls through the brick wall behind him, leaving a gaping hole in his wake. For a moment, I think that he's fallen into a void, because I can't make out anything in the darkness that cascades through the gash in the wall, but then stars begin to wink and blink at me, and suddenly I am in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, worriedly as my mother does her best to heal a fallen witch, five years younger with a war raging around me.

I stagger backwards and trip over somebody's arm or leg or corpse and find myself planted firmly in my office chair, clutching a quill in the dimly lit room. Gwydion Blake sits on the end of my desk, looking down at me with a charming grin. "Dinner?" He asks with a hand extended, and I try not to blush as I nod shyly and place my palm in his. He hauls me to my feet and suddenly I'm in front of the pyramids, a crowd of Death Eaters circling me with malevolent grins. 

_"Half Blood Bitch!"_ They shout in unison, and in my panic I can only make out one face in the blurry crowd.

Cedric Diggory hollers, _"Your Muggle family is next, Kettleheart."_

I wake with a start, the unbearable weight of Figaro standing impatiently on my vital organs making breathing tricky. When I push him off me gently to open the curtains in my bedroom, letting early Autumn daylight stream in through the window, he growls hungrily. 

"Alright, alright," I say soothingly, scooping him up like a newborn baby, "Let's go get you some breakfast."

In my half wakeful state, I almost forget that I have a meeting at work first thing. Rushing to get ready while also downing scalding hot tea isn't an impossible task, but it is pretty bloody hard to apply mascara while burning your taste buds off. I brush my hair into a bun behind my head as quickly as possible, tucking stray hairs behind my ear as I shrug on my coat and tuck my bag against my ribs. Figaro stands beside me expectantly, still licking bits of breakfast off his mouth and I pick him up with my free arm before apparating.

The Magical Wildlife Rescue Foundation is situated on top of a fish and chip shop. To get in, you have to go around the side alley and step into an unassuming wooden crate that probably once held a number of drink bottles but now acts as a doorway to the office. By the time I've gone through the whole process of entry, I'm only about five minutes late to the meeting. I rush to the conference room with a flushed face and pray that nobody important - well, besides Madeline, my _boss -_ is going to be at this meeting. _Oh, what a fool I am._ Because who is standing in front of the door, holding a cup of tea and schmoozing with my colleagues? The one and only _Gwydion Blake._

A part of my brain shouts, _"But he was here yesterday!"_ While the other screams, _"Well, he's here now and you're late for a meeting in front of him!"_

Nonetheless, I do my best to slide into the room as quietly as possible, but as I am skulking to a spare seat around the conference table, Madeline remarks, "Ah, Kettleheart! Nice of you to join us. Still, you're much earlier than most days."

I try to hide my scowl with an embarrassed smile. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Evergreen," I mumble, "It won't happen again."

To my surprise, none other than the devastatingly handsome Gwydion Blake, dressed in blue velvet robes with dark hair cut almost to the skull (and lightning bolts buzzed into the sides? Wicked), speaks up. "There really isn't any need to be sorry about being late," He assures me, "When I was in Paris, nobody started work before noon!"

Everybody in the room erupts with laughter, and I chuckle along, too. Who am I kidding? He might not be funny, but he's very good-looking and also a total wizarding _superstar._

"Thank you, Mr. Blake," I reply shyly. 

He throws me a wink before looking to Madeline, who has begun to address the conference room which, although quite large, is packed with over-eager employees who want to impress the celebrity in our midst. We all crowd around the table while Madeline and Blake stand to address the assembly. 

"Now that we are _all here,"_ Madeline casts me a pointed look, "Shall we begin? Good - our first order of business will be, of course, to introduce the _heroic_ Gwydion Blake, whose bravery in Greece recently means that a large portion of black market Chimera dealing in Athens has been outlawed altogether. Let's give him a round of applause!"

Everybody claps and whoops for Blake, who accepts it all as graciously as somebody used to being applauded does. He's charmingly handsome, with perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect eyes...not to mention, he has _great_ legs. I've had a crush on him since I was a newly graduated witch training to care for magical creatures. Embarrassingly enough, my childhood bedroom still sports a poster of him on my ceiling - every few seconds, the picture grins and winks at me, just like the real Gwydion Blake. 

Madeline continues once the noise has died down. "Of course, although the hard work of our most talented witches and wizards doesn't go unrecognised, there is, unfortunately, always more to be done. We've heard rumours from the Sphinx Sanctuary in Cairo of illegal trading of classified dangerous creatures, and in the coming weeks assignments will be given to those who prove themselves capable."

I sigh inwardly. I would probably give my left arm to go on one of these expeditions - in fact, maybe both my arms. Alas, I've never been chose and I'll probably never _be_ chosen. It's still one of the things I daydream about - of Madeline Evergreen one day waking up and thinking, _"Wow, Circe Kettleheart is by far the most qualified worker on my team!"._ It's just a silly fantasy, though, I suppose. 

In fact, this ambition is a thunder cloud over my head so heavy with rain that I can't help into daydreams during the briefing. I know I'll end up being the one to fill out the paperwork, to send the unimportant bits of parchment to the Ministry by Owl post and have to drop the confidential parts off in person.

I just can't help but imagine myself as the star of a hit series of semi-fictitious books, not unlike Gwydion Blake's novels (which I'm sure he didn't write himself, just like Gilderoy Lockhart when I was in school, though you'll never hear me say it out loud). I even know what I'd call the series - _The Kettleheart Adventures._ Subtitle? _Circe Kettleheart's tales of travel and espionage in the name of magical conservation._ I'm sure it'd be a hit in the Wizarding world, if only I could get the opportunity to gain experience. 

The briefing concludes after two long hours of Madeline trying to disguise her crush on Gwydion Blake (she isn't alone in this, however) by cracking jokes and laughing hysterically at everything he says. I almost don't notice when everybody starts to get up and stream out of the room, and when I do I hurry to pack up the blank notebook I was supposed to be writing notes in, tucking the parchment paper and quill into my bag. Even Madeline manages to tear herself away from Gwydion Blake long enough to sit at her desk and peek at him over her paperwork. Gwydion himself remains in the conference room, fixing himself a cup of tea. 

_Oh, Merlin, even the back of his head is handsome,_ I find myself thinking. _Look at how smooth his skin is...I wonder what moisturiser he uses. And his biceps!_ Immediately, I'm disgusted by the powers of my own loneliness and hurry to leave the room, stopped only by the attractive man in question's voice.

"Was it...Kettleheart?" He asks me, leaning against the conference table and crossing one ankle over the other, tea held gingerly in his hands. 

By now, there's about five feet between me and the door, blocked only by a single chair. _I could just make a run for it,_ I think to myself, _just run and not look back._ Instead, I soldier through this painfully uncomfortable moment, smiling as confidently and calmly as I can, and reply, "That's me - Circe Kettleheart."

Gwydion Blake - _the Gwydion Blake! -_ stands up straight, reaching his free hand out for me to shake. I take it as coolly as I can, trying to make my handshake look equal parts strong and effortless. It doesn't quite work, though, and I'm sure I end up looking more awkward and uncomfortable than before. 

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady," he says with the most charming smile I've ever seen someone give another person. He holds my hand in a firm grip but loosens up just enough to lift it to his lips and press a delicate kiss on my knuckles. 

I almost faint as I take my hand back, certain that I will never wash it again. For a moment, I scold myself for not cleaning up a bit more before coming to work, but how was I supposed to know that a celebrity would come in _again?_ This wasn't my fault.

"Likewise," I tell him through a breathy giggle, doing my best not to stare at him. "Likewise, indeed."

"I'm Gwydion. Gwydion Blake, but you already knew that, didn't you?" His smile grows more charming still, and I'm worried that if it gets even better the fabric of space and time will collapse, or maybe just me. When I nod, he chuckles. "Of course you did."

"It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Blake," I say shakily. "I've read all your books."

"Please," He insists after swallowing a sip of tea, "Call me Gwydion."

We stare at each other for a moment. _His skin is perfect,_ I whinge to myself. _Seriously, w_ _hat moisturiser does he use?_ But after the pleasant silence becomes tense, I clear my throat. "I'd better be going - Doctor Evergreen won't be too happy if I slack off after being late to a meeting."

Gwydion nods slowly, eyes still fixed on me. I know what this is - boys have done it for centuries. He's making a lot of eye contact so that I feel special and give him more attention. It wouldn't normally work, but what can I say? All my principles go flying out the window for Gwydion Blake. 

"You have a good day, _Circe,"_ He says in a low voice as I smile at him, maintaining eye contact even as I make my way out of the large conference area. 

As I'm leaving, however, not more than a foot from the door, my foot catches on a knot in the carpet and my leg, snagged on this catch, goes flying into the chair between me and the door, hitting the leg with an impossibly loud _thump._

 _"Son of a - "_ I begin to curse loudly, but then I remember I'm being observed by none other than Gwydion Blake. So instead, I straighten up, still clutching my shin bone, and cover my pained expression with a calm smile. "Gun," I finish as smoothly as possible, "Son of a gun."

Then, I rush from the room as quickly as I can.


	6. Trouble Calls

**I CAN'T HELP BUT RECALL** the point in my life that I keep trying to forget. Memories are such a strange thing - they haunt you day in and day out, but you wouldn't let them go if they killed you. That's how I feel about the time I saved George Weasley's life - I'm not itching to throw into a vial and then forget about it, but I'm definitely itching to do that to _him._ It was the Battle of Hogwarts. My mother was keeping me by her side in the Great Hall, hurriedly healing injured witches and wizards. Before this, I'd never really known about my mum's abilities as a Healer, only really that she worked at St. Mungo's and that people thought she was pretty good, but I never really took an interest - that is, until I saw her at work during the Battle.

My mother is a small lady, even smaller than me, with a head of short, messy hair that is perpetually falling out of whatever makeshift clip she's used to pin it back. Her robes were tattered and covered in mucus and other unnameable substances, her eyes wild with laser focus as she reversed hexes, jinxes and even curses in the blink of an eye, all while I helped people hobbling around settle down and patrolled the outskirts of the Great Hall.

When they started to bring the dead in, things got a little strange. It was almost as if the lack of life excited the Death Eaters, and soon they were practically _inside_ the hall. I had my wand at the ready and fear clawing at the insides of my belly, not for me, but for my mother. What the hell was I was supposed to do if my mum died? There was ruckus everywhere, so much so that I couldn't focus in on anything. It started to irritate my senses so much so that, pretty soon, it felt like a wedge was being driven into the base of my neck, slowly driving it into two. I put my hands over my ears, trying to compose myself so that I could protect myself and my mother who was, at the time, preoccupied. 

It's when a vision hit me - a waking vision, not a prophetic dream, and it took place right there in the Great Hall. George Weasley - yes, _Half-wit George,_ cute redhead in the year above me - in a hidden passageway I'd frequented while snooping around during the Triwizard Tournament (a story for another time), alongside Fred, his twin brother. Slinking along the narrow corridor, hands brushing the stone walls for the familiar loose brick which will open up a statue just enough to allow a small person through. 

_Oh, no,_ I found myself cursing. _The loose brick._ Sure enough, George triggers it with his hand and a bright flash of light made the pain between my ears unbearable, searing a messy white line in the middle of my eyes and suddenly the feeling was gone, and I was back in the Great Hall, and I knew what I'd just seen. 

"I have to go, Mum," I told my mother in a rush. She waved me off dismissively, shouting after me to be careful where I went, but my wand was already out and ready.

I don't remember how I got to the entrance to that corridor - everything was a blur. All I could focus on was _that redhead. His brother. The passageway. The explosion that kills them both._ When I got there, I was just in time to see a little bit of ginger hair disappear into a secret entrance. I hesitated a moment, but every nerve in my body screamed at me to follow them. Rushing down the passage as quickly as my sore feet could carry me, wand at the ready, I caught them just in time. 

_"No!"_ I found myself exclaiming, lunging forward and catching George's waist in my fall. He hit the ground with me, alarmed, and Fred's wand was at the ready before they even realised it was little Circe Kettleheart from the year below them. 

"What the hell are you playing at?" George asked, stunned. He put a hand on either side of my hips, helping me up a little, scowling. "You almost knocked me out."

Fred laughed. "That's rich coming from the guy who just got tackled to the ground by a gnome."

I wrinkled my nose. "I'm not a _gnome,_ you two. That loose brick that opens up the statue of November Wardwell? It's triggered with an explosive."

"Oh, cheers, then," George replied with a grin, scratching his head absentmindedly. "You've just saved our lives."

"You're the Kettleheart girl, right?" Fred asked me. "The Seer."

When I nodded, George exclaimed, "We've just had our lives saved by the Kettleheart Seer! That's one for the ages, Freddie." 

All I could do was blush.

.☆。• *₊°。 ✮°。˚ ·. ·

The television cuts throughmy dinner. The makeshift fry-up I've put together with things in my fridge sits virtually untouched on my plate as I begin to pay attention to the T.V. In the Wizarding world, of course, television is little more than a source of amusement. News spreads quickly and efficiently, while in the Muggle world - or, as my father likes to call it, _the real world -_ television and newspapers are really the only way of staying up to date, and neither is quite as well put together as the Daily Prophet. A male news anchor discusses the killings in Egypt on the subject of _World News._ Everyone in the studio has a suggestion - a new epidemic? Simultaneous stroke & cardiac arrest? Drugs? I have to laugh a little, because non-Magical folk love to put a scientific answer to everything.

The news program cuts to scientists in a studio conjuring up some strange, convoluted explanation for the obviously magical cause of death the suspicious deaths in the last few days. Even though I think it's funny how quickly Muggles want mysteries solved, I can't get myself amused for the life of me. In fact, all I can think about is my poor old sister and father, and how oblivious they are to all this funny business while I dream about their lives being threatened by Cedric Diggory. What the hell is the universe doing to me? I wonder what my mum thinks, but it's probably best if I don't write to her - if my family isn't already worried, than they will be if I talk to them about it. Besides, my dream was so oddly ominous that I'm worried I should be taking immediate action. Still, I'm sure there isn't any harm in picking up the phone and calling in to see how everyone is.

Almost as soon as I decide I should keep this worry to myself and check in on the Kettlehearts (and my father, not a Kettleheart but a _Farhad)_ as discreetly as possible, the landline in the kitchen rings. I don't use it at all, really, mostly because I don't really have any friends, but my family calls almost every other day, so it's a good way to keep in touch (almost faster than Owl Post...almost). I pick up the wireless phone, still ringing shrilly across the flat, and ignore Figaro's offended yowls as he is woken from a nap by the weight of me bouncing the couch cushions. 

"Hello?" I ask cautiously into the mouthpiece. 

_"Circe!"_ My sister's voice is urgent and worried over the phone. 

"Ophelia," I breathe a sigh of relief, glad to hear her alive and well, if not a little panicky. "Is everything alright?"

 _"Everything's okay here, I think, but Mum's just told us she thinks those weird deaths on T.V. are something...y'know...magic."_ Every time the subject of magic comes up between Ophelia and I - whether back when I was eleven and she was just about to graduate high school, or now, over the phone - her voice takes on an edge. I can never quite put a word to the emotion that appears in the conversation, but I understand where it's coming from. Imagine growing up with a mother and little sister who have weird dreams and make things float without a second thought and not being able to do any of it. 

"I wouldn't worry too much, Ophelia," I reassure her, "But I'd love to know how much Mum told you and Dad." 

_"She told me enough that me and Dad are worried about you! Have you been having any weird dreams?"_ Ophelia's voice is heavy with anxiety and sisterly concern.

"No," I lie through my teeth, hoping that stretching the truth (or in this case, compressing the truth) will console her, "I haven't been. You don't have to worry about me, dickhead, I'm worried about you."

 _"Mum's saying I should come stay with you for a few days,"_ My sister tells me breathlessly, _"I'm already packing my bags - I should be there before midnight if I leave in the next few minutes."_

"Am I picking you up from the train station?" I ask tiredly. The last thing I want is my excitable older sister carrying her nervous energy into my sanctuary, but I know why our mother is pretending to be worried about me - she actually wants _me_ to keep an eye on Ophelia for her. I'm sure there's a bit of Owl Post coming in right now, in fact.

Ophelia's voice grows brighter at the prospect of apparating with me. My mother never lets her side-along apparate because she's afraid that Ophelia will splinch, but my sister loves the rush. _"Would you please?"_ She replies hopefully. _"I can take a cab, otherwise."_

"Don't be silly!" I insist with a laugh, "How can I let you take a cab when it'll take me less than a minute to get us both home?"

Ophelia chuckles over the phone. _"How's work?"_

I begin to tell her about Gwydion Blake - whose poster she _definitely_ saw me kiss in my adolescence - visiting the office when Figaro's howls interrupt me. I hang up almost immediately as a brown owl lands on my open window, holding a well-pressed envelope in its beak. I take it from the bird gently, and after it has acknowledged that the delivery has been made, the owl flies off into the night. For a moment, I think it must be my mother warning me about needing to look after Ophelia, but as soon as I catch that gold wax seal, I know who the letter is from - Alatar. I open up the envelope hurriedly and rush to read what's inside. 

_Circe,_

_By the time this letter reaches you, the Muggle police will no doubt be looking into the killings. If so, I should inform you that I've been selected to go to Cairo! I know it's no time to be over-excited - this is a very grave situation - but I can't help it. When do you leave for Cairo? We should coordinate. I'm there from day after tomorrow 'til the end of the week. Hope to see you there._

_If you have a spare day on your trip, you could join me in the field. Imagine if you got the chance to save lives once again? Maybe you'd like to become an Auror._

_In the meantime, stay safe and write to me when you're in Cairo._

_Love,  
_ _Alatar._


End file.
